


Mercy of Death

by StripedScribe



Series: Febuwhump2021 [27]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, FebuWhump2021, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe
Summary: “I wish I had never given you a chance.” Standing face to face, in the mess of criminals surrounding them. Some groaning in pain, others unconscious, others again dead. “You always have to kill, to take those shots.”“It’s fairer than what you do.” The cold calculated words of a killer, his gun still held in his hands, the smell of gunpowder in the air. “Fairer than all the people clinging to life in a hospital bed, brain dead, or unable to do anything for themselves. They’re all criminals, but at least I give them mercy.”FebuWhump Day 27 [I wish I had never given you a chance"]
Relationships: Frank Castle & Matt Murdock
Series: Febuwhump2021 [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136723
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Mercy of Death

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a sense of time which I don’t know exists… So Frank doesn’t know Daredevil’s identity, but they have sort of been teaming up, and the Defenders aren’t on the scene

“I wish I had never given you a chance.” Standing face to face, in the mess of criminals surrounding them. Some groaning in pain, others unconscious, others again dead. “You always have to kill, to take those shots.”

“It’s fairer than what you do.” The cold calculated words of a killer, his gun still held in his hands, the smell of gunpowder in the air. “Fairer than all the people clinging to life in a hospital bed, brain dead, or unable to do anything for themselves. They’re all criminals, but at least I give them mercy.”

“Mercy? You turn yourself into their executioner, no chance for them to tell anyone anything else, no opportunity for redemption?” A kick and one of the thugs trying to get up was knocked into unconsciousness, falling back onto the floor.

Frank turned to move, and he stopped him with the hit of a baton. “We’re not doing this Red.”

“We are. Else what we do, all of this, we’re over.”

The Punisher just scoffed, again trying to walk away. The blow of his sticks this time stopped by an empty hand, pulling him across the space between them. “You think yourself soft, and gentle, but you’re no better than me. You praise yourself on not killing, ignoring the fact that many of the people who have faced you are ultimately still dead. Or as good as dead.” They were almost chest to chest now, a strong hand clutching his shoulder, the feel of Frank staring into the blank red eyes of the suit. “There’s no living in a coma, tied to machines in a hospital. Torturing their families, that decision to turn off life support.”

“You hide behind your gun, your snipers.” He tried to step away, to shake off the grip on his arm but it was a failed attempt. “Shooting anyone who disagrees with you.”

“You are not above than me. Hiding behind a suit, a mask, beating up criminals under the disguise of a Devil. Turning yourself into a figure of fear, twisting your image so the people of the streets both fear and trust you. What we do, what any of us do, should not be commended, you think yourself a perfect little poster boy, but you’re as bad as the rest of us. Different weapons, different motives, and yet the same bodies end up 6 feet in the ground. Eventually we’ll end up there too, and I’ve accepted what they’ll think of me. Have you?” He pushed Matt, who stumbled even as Frank ran away, down and out of their battleground.

“Goddamnit Frank. You can’t just kill people and pretend it’s okay because I hurt them as well.” There was no chance he’d have heard that, and so Matt continued his chase. Tracking him back to his safehouse, sitting with legs hanging off the edge of the roof. Listening to the other man’s movements inside. He couldn’t stay in his city if he was going to just kill everyone, not giving Matt a chance to find out information, to question the people he’d hurt.

Not that he cared to question any of them today, just leaving them all behind, a lesson taught. That was another advantage in not killing, the image, the notion of what he was capable of doing, a message reaching everyone else involved. A broken leg a shout of leave this place, a broken arm the words don’t let me catch you again.

A protector of his city, needing to know everyone and everything going on inside it. Difficult to do with Frank on his own mission of murder. It was never going to work out.

It wasn’t big enough for both of them, not enough space for them both to protect, to defend and avenge. Their combined presence even bringing in more crime, more violence.

He had to chase Frank out of here. Chase out the other crime magnets, allow himself to be the sole protector. He’d managed before, before the Punisher appeared on the scene, his violence now caught up in and then added to Matt’s pile of blame.

Even now, back in his safehouse, he could just hear Frank playing with his weapons. An addiction as he took them apart and rebuilt them, the workings of a serial killer. The vigilante actions just a front for how he truly felt, the tentative agreement with the Devil surely just a cover, an excuse to stay safe and have one less person to defend against. No longer were they in this truce.

He could best him in a fight. Catch him off guard, ensure the message got across, force him to find a new safehouse in another city.

To stop this fakery of relationships and friendliness. Protect them all from his murder and violence.

It wasn’t hypocritical. Everything he did was deserved, was less than death, he’d never killed anyone. Even Frank had said he was soft for not taking that next step.

* * *

It was mercy. To kill them, and stop them from doing despicable things to other people. Better than dragging out their death, to leave them bleeding and bruised on the streets, the lucky ones finding their way to a hospital quick enough. Never quick enough to escape the bills joined into a visit like that, and worse again, those who ended up in hospital for months, clinging to life before their families made that awful decision to turn off the power.

A coward’s choice. Even as he dismantled and cleaned the guns, methodical in his movements, he stewed over everything Red had said, and his actions. The harsh breathing of the men they’d left behind, some bound to pass before they received help, a dragged out death.

A harsh comparison to the quick and accurate shot of a gun. Yes, an executioner’s movement, but it was over for them. They would never again be able to hurt someone else.

Or those less deserving of death, a shot to a limb, enough to take them out of action for the fight, but in this trade, little enough that they’d know how to heal it, how to recover from it.

Clean and professional, more refined than the rough breaking of limbs, blows to head causing brain damage, bodies battered and bruised by the Devil’s torture.

It was impossible that he could think he was better than him, because he never cause the final blow of death. Because he left them clinging to life, left them to the fates of their own bodies, trying to survive broken necks and backs, slipping into comas easier than sleep.

He was cruel to his city, adding to the torture and the pain under the guise of protecting it.

The days and patrols were leading to a fight between them, only a matter of time before the disagreements and arguments broken them apart for the last time. He tried to get ahead of it, a sniper aimed across the rooftops of the city, pointing at nothing in particular.

Pointing at the rooftop he knew the Devil would always run across. Central, one of the perches he could spend time on listening to the city, the image of a gargoyle leaning over the edge.

It was only a matter of time before he returned to that spot. The view through the sniper’s lense giving him a sightline, aiming with a finger resting on the trigger.

A breath, too far away for the Devil to worry about him. And then a release, the bullet whizzing through the air, dodged at the last moment.

Fuck. The chase was on. He reloaded, looking down the sights again to the figure making its way across the rooftops. Another shot fired, and he was sure it had grazed his arm, a brief stumble but still not slowing him.

A face full of fury as he came closer and closer to Frank. Abandoning his sniper, a gun in hand as he ran from the Devil. A chase that would surely only end in one way, he’d fired the starting shot, Red would know that should have been a death blow.

A rattle of metal, half a baton hurtling through the sky towards him, he changed his course across the rooftops. Trying to get down to the ground, to get away from the hunt. Firing the gun behind him, the dull thunk as it hit brick instead of flesh, failed in its one mission. The distance between them was every shrinking, Red getting closer and closer, faster across the rooftops than Frank could ever be. Knowing the short cuts, a loop around different buildings to try and cut him off, the clatter of metal echoing as he ran down a fire escape, to the ever-quiet streets. Easier for him to run, but just as easy for the Devil, both knowing the alleys to cut through, the short cuts.

He wasn’t sure where he was trying to go, no final destination, no thought of a saviour being able to stop this.

He had to fight.

He abruptly stopped, turning on his heel with the gun raised in front of him, pointing straight at the Devil’s mask. “Red, this is for our own good. We can’t both live in this city.” Frank still couldn’t work out at which point his mind had finally decided this was the only way. That Red was past the point of any help, that like a broken and bleeding animal he would need to be put down. Finally at peace, stopping his torture disguised as protection.

“Leave then Frank. You don’t belong here. You fire at me, tried to kill me, and yet you try to say it is me that doesn’t belong? This is my home, my city, under my protection.” The low growl, the raised fists of a monster ready to fight.

“Protection?” It was laughable, the lies this man told to himself. “You prance around at night dressed as the devil, somehow deciding that it was good for you to hurt people. Letting off some steam or something from your day job, using those enhancements you have for pleasure?” He knew the Devil had something more than human in him, something to allow him to see or hear across the city, track down the crime that filled it. To use criminals as his toys, discarding those broken when he no longer needed them.

It would be easy, to tighten his grip against the trigger, to put him out of his misery. The blank eyed anonymity of the mask, easy to pretend there wasn’t a man behind there, just a monster, a creature. Using his gifts for evil disguised as greatness.

The Devil held his ground. Not advancing, a calculating tilt of his head as he stared down the length of the barrel.

He’d finished his calculations. He froze, a movement so slight anyone else would have missed it, before leaping forward, trying to pull the gun from Frank’s hand. He fired in response, the first hit landing on the arm, the second firing into the air. Unarmed, the fight continued, the sweeping limbs of the Devil knocking him to the ground, a scrabble for the gun again as blows continued to rain down on him. Dodging some, taking the rest, the Devil stamped on his hand, so close to his weapon.

A frenzied attempt to carry on fighting, to get something. The dull blows of batons on his chest, his shoulders as he found his footing again, leading the fight in a circle towards the gun. Blow after blow continuing to rain down on him, but it would take more than that to take him out. More effort needed from the Devil than the quick and simple release of a bullet.

He grabbed the gun, flipping around, not hesitating as he fired. And even as the bullet left the barrel, the Devil was leaping at him, a last attempt to stop the weapon, flinching as it pierced his chest.

He wouldn’t stop moving. Even with that injury, something that would have taken any other man down screaming, he kept advancing, bloody punches covering Frank in red handprints. Another fire, missing his chest, glancing through or off his arm, too fast to know where. A crack, the white hot fire of pain, a broken arm. Switching to his left, continuing to fire until he ran out of bullets, to try and survive against the frenzy of the monster in front of him.

Until it was too late, out of metal to protect him, and he had to run again, hope that the Devil was too injured to chase him, that he could get away. Returning to the roofs again, the ever present steps of the man right behind him.

Cornered. Panting on the edge of a rooftop, too far for him to jump.

“You got me Red.” He could have killed him long ago, he was playing with him. He’d seen what the Devil could do to people, perhaps a struggle of morals. Unable to take that next stage to actually commit to murder.

A coward. He could see the hesitation, a run of a million thoughts behind a blank face.

And then they were falling, the Devil’s leap quickly unbalanced, a push to Frank pulling them both down to hit the cold dark ground.

* * *

It was the next morning before they were found, too late for any chance of help. A scream at sunrise, two chilled bodies surrounded by blood. Crumpled together, the last fight of Hell’s Kitchen’s protectors.

**Author's Note:**

> Little bit of background info, the ending of this was decided upon by a bot in a discord server, through the process of rolling dice.


End file.
